2 years, 11 months, and 14 days
by XdarkkissX
Summary: It has been almost 3 years since Sherlock jumped. It has been almost 3 years since John lost his best friend and the best man he has ever known. This is my first fic. R


**A/N: Hello all. I'm not quite sure how this all works as I am quite new to the FF world. Please review and leave comments, feedback, suggestions, or other such things. I do not have a beta, and this was all done by me so there are bound to be mistakes, grammatical errors, Americanisms, and such. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, it means a lot to me! Please be warned, in this fic the POV switches between John and Sherlock... That is all I suppose!**

**~updated~ Again. Hi, me again. I decided to not make this a multi-chapter and everything is just posted, the entire story. I felt it was not long enough to be a long thing and so it's just... Here. Ok, I'm done now :D**

John Hamish Watson was sitting in his favorite chair, Sherlock's chair. He had a cup of tea at his side and the telly was muttering some nonsense, but John wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was staring at a skull over the mantel. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away, no matter how creepy it was. John couldn't bear to throw away any of Sherlock's things. It had been 2 years, 11 months, and 26 days since Sherlock had jumped off the roof, 2 years, 11 months, and 14 days since John had died inside. Not one tear had left his eyes, nor had he complained, or moaned. It was as if the man had simply turned to stone and crumbled. John didn't leave 221 B Baker Street anymore. Mrs. Hudson would bring him his groceries, and do his laundry. Sometimes, Molly, or Lestrade would pop in for a visit, and they would chat for a while. Mycroft even came to visit once, and gave John some money to help him continue living in the flat. They all looked at him with such sad eyes, like he was broken. John wasn't broken, he was dead. John heaved himself out of his thoughts and got up out of Sherlock's chair. He took his tea, now cold, and dumped it in the sink, something he found himself doing more often than not, which was strange for the tea obsessed little man. He then went to the fridge to look for some food. He sighed as he opened the freezer.

"Sherlock, why didn't you clean up your experiments? Leaving heads all over the place," John mumbled as he pulled a frozen turkey from the freezer and moved to throw it away. A hand suddenly grabbed John's shoulder, and he jerked away.

"John, dear, why did you throw away the turkey?" Mrs. Hudson questioned. He looked at her with a dazed expression, and then glanced at the rubbish bin. He slowly pulled out the turkey and took it over to the sink, where he washed the grime off of the plastic coverings. Mrs. Hudson gently took the turkey from him and replaced it in the freezer, then led him over to the sofa.

"Oh John, you need to see someone. You're ill," John pulled himself away from her and scowled, "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson, just a bit out of sorts. It will pass in a few days." John gingerly patted her hand and she sighed.

"You've been saying that for three years now dear," Mrs. Hudson stood up and began to pile up dirty clothes and rotten newspapers from the floor.

"2 years, 11 months, and 14 days," John muttered. "What was that?" Mrs. Hudson paused, and sat beside John again as he sighed, "It's been 2 years, 11 months, and 14 days since…"

Mrs. Hudson began to pat his leg, "I know it's difficult, but he would want you to move on, to find something or someone that makes you happy. I bet if you got rid of a few of his things-"

"If I find one of his things missing, so help me I will…" John fell silent, and Mrs. Hudson put her arms around him, "Of course, I wouldn't dream of doing anything to make you uncomfortable. Would you like me to make you some tea?" John wiped his brow on his oatmeal jumper and sighed, "No thank you. I think I would just like to be alone now." Mrs. Hudson gave him one last squeeze and then walked from the room.

"Sometimes I talk to him. I see him in mirrors or in fog, but when I turn around he isn't there. I'm finally losing it Greg," John murmured into his tea. Greg sighed and placed his own tea on his desk, "Maybe you should see someone John. You're ill." John shook his head sadly, "I'm not ill, I just miss him." "It's been 3 years," "2 years, 11 months, and 14 days," "What?" "Nothing," Both men just sat there in the silence for a while, Greg sipping his tea, John starring at his as if it held all the secrets of the world.

"I'll have Stevens drive you home. Get some rest, you need it," Greg pulled John out of his chair and sort of pushed him into the arms of the very large cop that had been waiting just outside the door.

"I can walk Greg," John protested before the man could drag him to the car. Greg laughed, "Not in this state you can't. You could barely leave your flat today. This is probably the first time you've been out since-?" Greg dropped his head, as did John. "Yeah," John sighed, looking up sadly, but with a strange sort of smile on his face, and Greg began to giggle.

"Is something amusing to you DI Lestrade?" John questioned a distinct impression of the former consulting detective evident in his voice.

"Just laughing at the thought of Anderson saying something intelligent," the inspector sneered, also impersonating the Consulting Detective. The two men sat there and laughed, "Come on," Greg chuckled, "I'll drive you home." John wiped his eyes and climbed into the front seat of the police cruiser.

"I haven't laughed that hard in years," John confided.

"Well, you should laugh again, helps you live longer," Greg pulled the cruiser out of the lot. The two drove in a comfortable silence all the way to 221b Baker Street.

As John entered his flat, his depression instantly returned. He sighed and walked into the kitchen to brew some tea that he wouldn't end up drinking, in front of the telly, which he probably wouldn't watch anyways. As he was filling the kettle with tap water, there was a crash from the direction of Sherlock's room. John dropped the kettle and dashed into Sherlock's room. He stopped when he saw the dark figure sitting calmly on the bed. The man had curly hair, a very blue scarf, and a black woolen trench coat. His grey eyes bore right through John's soul, and his beautifully high cheekbones stood out against his pale ivory skin.

"Sherlock," John breathed, and that is when he lost it. John Watson, the soldier, the rock began to sob. Out of his watery eyes, John watched Sherlock approach him. He felt strong hands pull him up and hold him. John knew he was hallucinating, but he didn't want it to end.

"I'm so sorry John," Sherlock soothed. That was how John knew he was crazy. His Sherlock would never comfort anyone. His Sherlock was made of ice, just like his brother. "I'm alive John. I've wanted to tell you all this time, but I've had to hide from Moran. I'll explain later, we need to gather evidence. Now, I can't go down to the yard, due to the fact I am dead," Sherlock blathered on, and John listened, caught up in his fantasy. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped speaking. "John," Sherlock tried to shake the smaller man, "John, are you listening?" John nodded and stood up. "I have a lot to think about Sherlock, can we do this later?" Sherlock mused it over for a second, "I suppose I can go back to my hiding hole for now. Don't tell anyone of my existence John. It is pertinent that I stay dead."

"Anything Sherlock… see you later," John whispered into the man's back as he disappeared back out the window.

"Oh dear, that is problematic." Mrs. Hudson cooed over her cup of tea, "but I'm sure the hallucinations will stop soon darling. Would you like me to find someone for you to talk to, a therapist perhaps? Not that old woman you used to see, Sherlock seemed to find her quite bothersome, but Janice goes to this lovely man down on Bard Avenue, and I'm sure he would talk with you." Mrs. Hudson blathered away, pouring herself another cup of tea.

"That's alright Mrs. Hudson; I am fine, better than ever actually. I think that this is going to help me get over his death. These… spirits will disappear, and I'll be fine. Thank you though; I just needed to tell someone else about it." John picked up his cup and placed it in the sink. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some more tea John," Mrs. Hudson called.

"Thank you, but no, I have to see a man about a horse," John called back as he walked out the door, and into the grey streets of London.

John pushed open the creaky door and walked inside. Spider webs covered the dimly lit walls, and candle wax formed little mountains on the dark wood floor. He walked down an endless hallway, and approached a red velvet curtain. "Hello, I'm here to see Madame Havaria," John announced.

"Enter," a woman's voice rasped from inside. John pushed apart the curtain and dust rained down on him. He entered a small area filled with pipe smoke and other unidentifiable aromas. There was a small table with golden tiles, and purple curtains clung desperately to the walls. There was a small crystal ball in the center of the table, and an ornate rosewood chest roosted in the far right corner. A woman sat in a plush chair behind a veil of smoke. As the smoke cleared, John could finally make out the figure of Madame Havaria. She was young, in her late 20's and had long, silky black hair. She had piercing grey eyes, and a small mouth covered in deep red lipstick. There was a birthmark just above the right side of her mouth that John could tell was painted on.

"What can Madame Havaria do for you child?" she asked as she placed her hands on the table. Her voice was raspy, implying years of heavy smoking but underneath, John could tell it was an act. "Child," John snorted. "Do not laugh, you may be greater in age, but I am greater in knowledge of your past, present, and future. You are just a child in the eyes of God." She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

"Why did you leave your home. You had plenty of money." John questioned, making another quick deduction, oh how proud Sherlock would be. Madame's face fell, for a moment, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. Not quickly enough for John to miss it. "I was correct, wasn't I?"

"We are not here to discuss me," Madame growled. John smirked and sat across from her. His wooden chair creaked and wobbled, but did not give way, so he settled himself further. "Alright. You know why I am here I presume?" John asked

"To summon the devil, you crave what you have lost, or so I have heard. Whispers and rumors of your forgotten love," Madame whispered seductively. "I'm not gay," John protested, "He is, was, my best friend!" She lit a large pipe filled with something scented of roses, "of course not." She smirked, "I would love to help you, but you may not find the answers you are looking for."

"Why not, I have plenty of money to pay you with!" John cried, fumbling in his pockets. "Of that I have no doubt. I will summon him if you insist." "Well, I insist," John crossed his arms. "Relax, close your eyes and listen to my voice. You are drifting away, into a grey fog. A great, black gate looms in front of you. Push open that gate and float inside. You should now see a figure draped in black. Welcome to the His lair" John felt arms pulling him off of the chair and onto something soft on the floor. Fingers ghosted over his eyes and smells assaulted his nostrils.

"So, you've come to meet with the Devil," The dark figure said within his dream.

"Yes, I want to make a deal with you," John called.

"A deal, well the devil does not deal fairly," The figure smirked. John grimaced, "I know. My proposal is my soul for Sherlock's." The figure laughed, "I can't do that." "Why not? I don't want ten years, I don't want one. I want to take his place. The world needs him, I need him!" "I can't," "I don't believe that for a second. Why can't you bring him back" "I can't bring back what you already have." John stopped, "what did you say?" The devil smirked and began to fade into blackness, "The great Sherlock Holmes isn't dead."

His meeting with John had gone… unusually. Sherlock had expected anger, or relief, but not that broken man that he had held in the bedroom. They spent 2 years, 11 months, 26 days, 17 hours, 46 minutes, and 16 seconds apart. Every moment burned in his heart. He had watched John at his very own grave, he had watched, hoping John would move on… He had wanted John to move on.

John did not move on. Everyday John spent in the flat killed him. Sherlock had full access to all of the cameras, and he watched John talk to the skull. He watched John scream for him at night, and wake shivering and sweating from his nightmares. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Mycroft constantly reminded him of the fact that he couldn't visit him, not if he wanted to keep John safe, but ever dry sob that John suffered ripped through his very core. He didn't know why it had shocked him so much to see John in person. He had known that John wouldn't believe it was really him. He shouldn't have been so happy when he saw that little spark of hope graced John's eyes. He shouldn't have been so broken when he watched that hope die. Feeling was not an advantage, but he couldn't help himself. That broken man had changed him.

There was a beeping in his coat pocket that he had been ignoring for some time. Sighing, he grabbed the phone and tapped on the screen. Unknown number: "I fear you've shown your hand my dear Mr. Holmes. Didn't your brother warn you not to visit? Didn't he tell you that I would find you? I always find you Sherlock. You took my love, now I'm going to take yours. Ciao. –SM" Sherlock threw the phone against the wall, shattering it, and then raced over to the mantle, where his emergency stash, and an extra cell sat. He slapped on three patches, and dialed his archenemy, the most brilliant mind he knew; Mycroft.

His head was throbbing, that much he knew. He could feel his wrists, bound behind his back. This was perfect, just perfect. This is why he never left his house anymore. He knew no one would save him this time. John though back fondly to the case of The Blind Banker. It was strange thinking back fondly to times when he was kidnapped and tortured, but it brought with it memories of Sherlock. Those were the only things that could ever make John happy anymore, the memories, but Sherlock wasn't here anymore, and John had to get out of this himself.

He struggled against his restraints, and screamed for help. Of course no body answered him. He tried to deduce where he was. The steady dripping of black water, and a moldy smell mixed with dead… most likely a sewer. How original. He could see a bit of light filtering from above his head, and he craned his neck to try and make out the sounds above him. He couldn't figure out anything. Sherlock would know exactly where he was. Where were his god damn apparitions now?

He tried to think back to how he got here. The last thing he could recall was speaking with Mrs. Hudson about his latest illusions. He could remember going to see someone, but who he could not recall. The sound of distant footsteps jarred the soldier from his memories and he braced himself for whoever was holding him caged like an animal. It was not who he had expected in his wildest dreams. The man was tall, with a McMillan Tac-50 sniper rifle.

"Hello there, Johnny. You're finally awake. Good! Oh, I see you're a bit surprised. Quite a shock there, isn't it?" The man patted his leg and then tugged him back by his hair, "You should have seen it coming Johnny. You always knew my dear Jim would have a way of getting back to you. You shouldn't have left your house." The man grinned and pushed his head back into his injured shoulder, causing a ripping pain to tear through his torso. John barely noticed it, and instead focused on the very familiar face smiling down from above him. The man chuckled as John shot him the best look of utter loathing he could muster.

"You," John screamed.

Mycroft's men were surrounding the abandoned building. So cliché, and not a challenge to find in the least. Sherlock knew John was inside the building. He knew it was one of Moriarty's men, seeking revenge for his lover's death. But why had they chosen John to kidnap? He supposed it was because John was his friend, his only friend, his best friend, his John. Wait, his John? John was in no way his.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, poking the consulting detective for the fourth time in the past hour, effectively pulling him out of his reverie, "Still can't believe you're alive. Why didn't you tell us? Don't answer that, we'll chat later. Now we have to find John. Ok, we're going to send in a team of-"

"No, I'm going in alone," Sherlock demanded, "I'll take a wire, but he has John, and he wants me. I won't risk a life." Lestrade sighed, "I thought you'd be like that. Alright, I'll have Donovan set you up."

Finally, Sherlock was wired and ready to enter the building, and for the first time in his life, he felt… afraid. Mycroft, in a rare example of sediment, patted him on the shoulder, "He'll be fine Sherley."

"Don't call me Sherley," He snapped, but he nodded back at Mycroft, and then stepped inside the bleak halls that were holding his John.

He felt like he had been walking for hours, when in reality it had only been 7 minutes and 52 seconds… 53. He could hear dripping as he descended the cold stone stairs of the abandoned sewage plant. The halls seemed to stretch on forever, although that was completely illogical, Sherlock found that when John was in the equation, logic sometimes forgot to make sense. He heard a scream, 2 degree's northwest of his current location, and began to run through the twisting hallways of the concrete dungeons. Finally finding his door, he burst through, and being a man of dramatics, screamed, "Aha!" And then he stopped. He took in his surroundings. Sherlock was 100% stumped for the first time in his entire life.

John was tied to a chair; the left side of his head was sticky with dried blood, presumable 3 hours or so telling by the clumping. His hands were bound behind him, and he was restrained at the waist, attached to a very uncomfortable looking metal chair. It wasn't John's current state of distress that alarmed him. It was the self-proclaimed love of Jim Moriarty, the man who had called himself SM, the man who had stolen his John.

"You look a bit confused Sherlock. Not the first time I fear," The man grinned and shifted his sniper from one hand to another. The man looked quite pleased with himself, "Didn't see this one coming I suppose. It's alright, I don't blame you, I blend in quite well."

"Anderson!" Sherlock started towards him, but the man raised his gun and pointed it straight at John's chest. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"It's called a cover, Sherlock. Allow me to reintroduce myself. Sebastian Moran, at your service," he chuckled and gave a half bow right before he pulled back the safety.

He was alive. The entire time, that completely unfeeling bastard was alive and he hadn't even bothered to tell John. He had allowed him to believe he was dead. He was going to get such hell, if they both got out of this… when they got out of this. They would get out of this. John could see the slight outline of the wire underneath Sherlock's coat. He knew that Anderson, Sebastian, whoever that man was, hadn't noticed it though. John continued wiggling his arms inside of his wrist restraints. He could feel his wrists bleeding, but the adrenaline took care of that. He knew he was getting free. He had to get free, he had to help Sherlock.

John was only faintly aware that there was a gun pointed at his chest, all he could see was Sherlock. He looked into the man's eyes and saw fear, and pain, and rage, and something else strange. Something that John had never expected in one thousand years. Was Sherlock, no, impossible, improbable, and with John. He almost giggled to himself, but he stopped just in time. He knew the longer Sherlock could stall, the more he would be free from his confines.

John was trying to free his wrists. Anderson hadn't noticed yet. For someone who had managed to hide his identity for 10 plus years, the he was extremely obtuse.

Sherlock had schooled his features back to stone as soon as he had seen John. He had to buy him time. He could tell John was almost free, but he didn't know how much longer it would take. He needed to see a doctor about those cuts to, especially the one on his head.

"Are you even paying attention to me Sherlock?" Sebastian pouted, "That bothered Jimmy ever so much. 'Always trying to deduce', he would complain to me. You hurt him so much. I would always have to put the pieces back together. I was like John to him, his soldier, his lover."

"I'm not gay," John reminded them both, but was completely ignored by them both.

"He's not mine, and Moriarty felt nothing for no one, even you Moran," Sherlock breathed, pain coursing through his veins from Johns frequent proclamation of his sexual orientation. Why did it hurt so much, so much more every time he said that?

Sebastian anyhow seemed to greatly enjoy Sherlock's retort, "Is that pain I hear in your voice. Oh Sherlock, Jim was oh so correct when he said you had a heart, and I fear I have him right here, underneath my gun."

Finally, Sherlock had a reason to smile. He was once again able to see what those around him were blind to. Grinning, he held his arms out and grinned at the ever so daft sniper, "Oh Sebastian, don't go back to your old Anderson mindset. You see, but you do not observe. You never had John trapped… He was simply waiting." With that, John yanked the sniper out of Moran's hands and turned it on him. Sherlock dashed across the remaining distance between them, and smashed his fist into Moran's left cheek, followed by two jabs into the ribs and stomach. John used these few seconds to undo the buckle around his torso and stand. Moran threw a blind fist in Sherlock's direction, but he dodged it easily and used that momentum to grab Moran's wrist and spin him so the back of his knee's hit the chair. Moran fell and John jumped up, straddling the man. Mycroft's men finally decided to show up at that point.

"Put your hands in the air Moran. You're under arrest for the kidnaping of John Hamish Watson, and the attempted murder of the same. You will be charged by the British Government, and will not be allowed free choice of a lawyer."

"Nice of you to finally decide to show up," Sherlock sighed, finally at peace.

Moran was processed fairly quickly. John finally felt the throbbing pain in his head and wrists as the adrenaline drained from his system, and Sherlock caught him just before he hit the ground and carried him through the tunnels of the plant. He started to black out, but Sherlock got him to the ambulance before he could lose consciousness completely. He could hear Lestrade shouting orders, and Donovan was crying somewhere to his right, but all he was aware of was the small drops of liquid that were hitting his face. John didn't think it was raining, he couldn't hear the patter of drops. Once again John was faced with the improbable situation: Sherlock was crying… over him.

He felt Sherlock lay him onto a stretcher. "I'm so sorry John," Sherlock whispered. John laughed, "You daft bastard. Why didn't you tell me you were alive?" Sherlock looked down at his hands, "I thought it was the only way to keep you safe. I was correct, as always." John just smiled, "You watched me, didn't you. That's why you came back." Sherlock nodded. John took his hand and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder, "This time, you owe me." They smiled and John finally slipped into the warm darkness welcoming him home.

John had ben unconscious for 23 hours, 46 minutes, 37 seconds, and Sherlock was bored. The doctors had stitched up Johns head and wrists, and given him plenty of morphine for the pain. Sherlock also had some cuts bandaged, but forced the doctors to do everything in Johns room. How could he possibly be taken away from John's side? No, he refused, and none to politely either. Lestrade had come in and yelled at Sherlock for leaving John in such a state, and for not telling he was still… well, living, but then he had hugged him, which was quite uncalled for, and gave him a cup of coffee. Lestrade had stayed with him for 2 hours and 4 minutes before he was called back to the Yard.

Mycroft had also stayed, mostly to yell at incompetent people in the hospital, and to make phone calls to Anthea informing her to fire the people who allowed Moran to stay hidden for so long. After 2 hours and 16 minutes, he came in to check how John was doing. That was strange, Mycroft never expressed his sediment. It didn't last long. Mycroft left the hospital after 6 hours and 27.

Molly popped by when her shift at the mortuary was finished. She told Sherlock that she was glad he was finally out. She told him she would pack up his things so he could move back to 221 B, and that she and her cat, Morticia, would miss him as their flat mate. Molly stayed for 39 minutes.

Mrs. Hudson had walked down to the hospital. She cried when she saw Sherlock, and she cried over John too, so much unnecessary sediment. Mrs. Hudson stayed for 56 minutes.

After all of these visits, Sherlock found he was quite exhausted, and opted for a 2 hour, and 13 minute nap. He played with some string. He took the cup that Lestrade had given him coffee in, and attempted to turn it inside out. It was illogical, but it took up 11 minutes and 46 seconds of his time. Sherlock would also take looking breaks. He would look out the window and deduce where people were going, he would look into the hall and deduce the nurses. He would even look at the walls and try to deduce who had occupied this room before John, and what sort of ailment they had suffered. Sometimes Sherlock would simply sit and watch John breath. He didn't dare look at John too long though. For some reason it made him uneasy to watch John while he was asleep.

23 hours, 46 minutes, and 37 seconds. Sherlock took John's hand in his own. He rubbed his fingers over John's worn palm. He felt the blood pump through his arteries. He felt his fingers twitch… He felt his fingers twitch!

"John, can you hear me. Are you awake?" Sherlock gently shook John's shoulders, and the soldier grumbled, "Damn it Sherlock, s'that you?" Sherlock chuckled and dropped John's hand, "Obviously. You are quite observant today." John yawned and rubbed the medical induced sleep from his eyes. He winched as he touched his face and head, assessing the damage before finally turning to Sherlock.

"So, you're not dead," John mumbled and shook his head.

"Not exactly," Sherlock smirked. John pondered this for a moment, and the pulled back his fist and sent it flying into Sherlock's left cheek. The detective fell to the floor and sat there in shock for a moment, rubbing his cheek.

"I suppose I deserve that, don't I," Sherlock sighed as he rose and reclaimed his seat.

"Absolutely! You're an outright git, you know that?" John smiled.

"You shouldn't be punching people with that beat up hand of yours soldier," he scolded

"I save that pleasure only for you Sherlock, only for you," he retorted, and then after a moment, decided to ask the one question plaguing his mind, "How did you do it?"

"I'll tell you when we get home," Sherlock promised.

"Where were you staying? Did Mycroft know?"

"Molly's flat. She assisted me. Of course Mycroft knew. He always knows,"

"And you couldn't tell me because…"

"Moran was following you. I told you that when I visited you the last time,"

"That was really you?"

"Of course it was me,"

"But you hugged me…"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and felt a heat rise in his cheeks, "you're delusional."

"No, I'm right. You're blushing Sherlock. You never blush. Why are you blushing," Sherlock turned and glared at the now snickering man, "I don't blush." This sent John into an outright fit. Sherlock stood up and flipped up his coat collar, "I'll get you some tea," He grumbled as he stormed out of the room.

Sherlock was waiting tempestuously in the café line when he felt the handle of an umbrella rest on his shoulder.

"What do you want Mycroft," Sherlock spat. When had that damn brother of his decided to return? No matter, hopefully his second stay would be brief.

"Testy today, aren't we brother," Mycroft remarked as he handed Sherlock a cup of hot Oolong tea, "Walk with me." The two men walked quietly down the halls of the hospital towards the room which was currently hosting John. Just as they approached the room, Mycroft stopped and turned on Sherlock.

"Are you going to tell him?" Mycroft queried. Sherlock huffed and tapped the side of the steaming cup.

"I have no idea what you are referring to," Sherlock evaded. At this attempt, Mycroft merely smirked, and rested both hands on his umbrella.

"Oh Sherlock, you know as well as I do that you have feelings for the soldier," Mycroft tilted his head and Sherlock grumbled again. "Are you going to tell him?"

"No. He is clearly bisexual, but refuses to accept that. I am not even sure if I have feelings. I've never felt anything before," Sherlock sighed and took a sip of the tea.

"You're drinking his tea, rather like kissing, don't you think,"

"Don't be immature," Sherlock snapped, but wiped off the lid to the tea in any case.

"Tell him, you may be pleasantly surprised," Mycroft urged and took the tea from his hands, removing the lid. Sherlock took back the topless cup and nodded reluctantly. "Good. I do believe it is time."

Sherlock sighed again; he'd been doing that quite a lot, opened the door, and entered John's room. John was sitting just as he had been when Sherlock had left him. The only difference was that now, the strong man was snoring quietly once again.

4 months later

The birds were chirping quietly at the window, and sunlight leaked into the room. John groaned, and rolled onto someone else's arm, pulling the thick comforter over his naked chest. The arm began to twitch, and fingers were suddenly tickling his stomach.

"Stop that you tosser," John squealed as he jumped out of bed, finally out of reach from the devilish fingers. He smiled and glanced appreciatively at the firm chest that graced his bed mate, his flat mate, his lover.

"You are so moody in the morning, Love," Sherlock huffed, as he also gave John a look over. John smirked and playfully smacked Sherlock's shoulder.

"Only when you decide that 5:30 in the morning is a nice time for games," John smirked as he sat back on the bed. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and licked his earlobe, "Not games, foreplay." John smirked as he pushed Sherlock onto his back, "Well anytime, is good for that," John growled as he pulled Sherlock in for a kiss.

End


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